A LITTLE BIT OF - blaise




Tugger didn't make it a habit of going to the Twolegplace. He found it was easier to separate his old life from his new the less reminders he had of it. He kept his old collar - barely more than a scrap of fabric now - and he wasn't shy about his roots, but he wasn't inviting the past into his present by any stretch of the word. However... every so often, he would wander close to the neighborhood and sit atop the perfectly kept fences, watching the dogs and the kitty-pets go about their days.

There was something about the people-watching that calmed him, something about realizing that there was a world outside of the animosity of the march and pine colonies. These kitty-pets had no idea about the world beyond and if they did, they only knew a very small part of a very complicated story. He could imagine, atop this birch wood fence, that he was a kitty-pet again, completely free of his duties and his emotions and his worries. It was a fleeting stillness but still he relished in the lazy aura that the Twolegplace gave off.

Something jingled behind him and his whiskers twitched in annoyance - who dared interrupt his moment? He flipped around, ready to pounce off the fence onto this trespasser -

Only to fall flat on his face in the grass. @BLAISE
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╰☆☆ Blaise knows most of the cats in his neighborhood, has made it a point to befriend any of the felines who make it past their housefolk's nests and out into the gardens. He can spot a new face or coat of fur from a mile away, and he does--a ginger fellow perched atop a fencepost, gazing into nothing with his back to the ragdoll.

New, maybe, he thinks. He approaches on unpracticed paws, stealth entirely forgone. His collar jingles and his tail flows proudly behind him like a patriotic cream-colored flag. Sky-colored eyes blink up at the tom just as he whirls around to face him.

There's a scrap of fabric at his throat, reinforcing Blaise's idea that this is a house cat like himself. He opens his mouth to greet the flat-faced tomcat but is interrupted by his fall straight into the grass in front of him. Blaise backs away in surprise.

"Ah! I'm sorry for startling you," he apologizes. He peeks closer, realizing with a start that the collar is tattered, that there is a strange scent to this tom that he's not encountered before. Not like the murky, mud-layered scent Little Wolf had carried, but redolent of forest life all the same.

"You're a wild cat," Blaise murmurs. Or at least, he's a wild cat now. "I--I hadn't realized. Are you okay? You didn't hurt yourself, did you?" He sits, tail neatly laid across amber paws.

There is a part of the ginger king that wants to snarl at the pet before him. Every inch of him wants to swat at the damn thing, the urge to defend and protect what is his eeking out of some feral part of his brain. But this garden isn't his and this cat is far from wild.

Tugger picks himself up carefully, taking a moment to smooth down his disheveled coat before he responds to the .... He blinks once at the tom before him, taking in their perfectly pointed face and plumed tail. Their eyes are startingly clear and their fur sleek and undeniably well-kept. Tugger's trademark snarl melts away at the assessment and instead, quiet interest overtakes his smushed face.

"You're a Ragdoll. An excellent specimen. I'd say Best in Breed. What is your name?" At his best, Tugger would've read this flame point for filth but now, this cat was merely a window into the life the ginger king once led. And maybe he knew this cat! If only he knew his call name...
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╰☆☆ Blaise's eyes widen in surprise at the other tom's initial reaction. Fury gleams in the red-pelted Persian's dark eyes, but it's replaced almost immediately by a simple curiosity. The other cat flicks his gaze from Blaise's face to his tail, and the flame point shifts awkwardly from paw to paw.

"You know your stuff," he says with a smile. "What kind of wildcat has showcat lingo, hmm?" He tilts his head, taking in the condition of the Persian's coat and collar. He wonders how long the red tom has lived in the wild.

"I'm Blaise," he says, tilting his chin up slightly. "Not a showcat, though. Sorry to disappoint." From what he's heard, it was his mother who'd won some paltry awards for her appearance, but he doesn't know much about it. His own housefolk were uninterested in such things. They keep him groomed because they like the way the fur feels under their strange hairless paws, he had ascertained once, rather than for pure appearance or breed standard.

"And what are you called?" Blaise takes a pawstep backwards, now that he sees the Persian is uninjured and merely interested in conversing. It's polite to give others space. Valentine is his only friend who likes other cats in his business that way.

Not a show cat. Well, that was certainly disappointing. He supposes that this cat may have grown up around the lifestyle that Tugger once had and perhaps might have come from a show cattery at one point, but it is of little consequence if he had never been in the ring before. But still, this cat was a purebred. Of his kind, one could say. Interest still colors his expression as he settles into a more casual, conversational position.

"My colony calls me Tugger." The Rum-Tum-Tugger was a name that he would never utter again, at least not in reference to himself. It was dead to him, even if he was not actively upset about ever holding the title. Once upon a time, he would've snarled at anyone who dared to shorten his illustrious name. Now, it was second-nature to give it out as he was called.

"Before my colony days, I ran the show ring. If you were around for the hurricane about a year and a half ago, mine was the house that got destroyed - over there on Roberts Street." Since then, the plot had been resold and a new house built in place of the one he had lost. He didn't go over there anymore, not after he had seen what the humans had replaced his home with. It made him angry just to look at it. "I got taken in by one of the ferals that used to parade the dumpsters."
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